The sun was setting behind the eastern mountains, bathing Minas Tirith's white walls in the last of the day's glorious golden light. As Lord Tuornen hastened along the busy city street, carefully gathering his costly robes about him to keep them away from the dust raised by his fellow citizens who hurried beside him, he took no notice of the unfolding twilight beauty. He was too overcome with joy.
Before long he reached his destination, and entered a fashionable dining hall situated among the more posh of the city's side-streets. Here no tankards clanked or drunkards sang; here the lanterns and chandeliers burned low and tastefully, the talk quiet and refined. The air was perfumed with the scent of costly roasts and exotic dishes. Heads turned as he entered, and he could not suppress a smirk of satisfaction at the way the head steward immediately came to his service.
"Good evening, Lord Tuornen!" chirped the well-dressed attendant, folding his hands as he came to stand before his guest. "Lord Beleg has preceded you to your table; please follow me."
Tuornen did so, smiling and nodding to those he knew as he passed those he knew seated at other tables, other nobles like himself who had only just begun to enjoy the best of the city once more. His heart lifted at the mere thought of how much more enjoyable life would now be, now that the worst of his current problems seemed to be nearing an end.
"Ah! Tuornen," he heard Beleg say, and looked up to see the stout dark-haired noblemen nod at him from his seat at a elaborately set corner table. "Glad you could make it, I just got here myself."
"How could I refuse, with so much to celebrate?" was Tuornen's jubilant replied before he turned to the steward.
"Your best wine, and be quick about it," the white-haired Lord snapped, then sat himself down as the man bowed and scurried away.
Beleg chuckled as his friend settled himself. "I wager the King's not having as easy a dinner as we are, eh?"
The other man shook his head, grinning himself. "Serves the man right, King or no. We could have told him from the start this whole treaty business wouldn't work, that those barbaric Haradrim would never agree to our terms. He's got nobody else to blame that the talks are going to end in failure-well, failure for him and those Southrons, in any case. Success, for any true friend of Gondor!"
Beleg frowned as he cut into the loaf of fine bread that had been sent to the table. "Perhaps we should not be too hasty, my friend," he cautioned. "There are still a few more days to go before the talks are formally concluded; perhaps Elessar will find a way to make them agree after all. Bread?"
Tuornen waved one large hand. "Not before the wine comes-where is that rascal? As far as Elessar goes, he's already been more than fair with those desert-crawlers. By Gondor's own law, all treaties must be approved by the Council, and if the King concedes anything else to them, I'll make certain that doesn't happen. Right now there are more on our side than his, and it's going to stay that way - ah, Luganion! Wonderful to see you!"
Another had come to the table now, a well-dressed man with trim gray hair and a finely shaped beard, bearing a green bottle of wine. He smiled at being addressed and carefully set the bottle on the table.
"When I heard you two were here, I insisted on bringing the wine out to you myself," the man replied pleasantly, producing a cork-screw.
"Well, we could hardly stay away, my friend, now that you've got the place back open again," was Tuornen's answer. "You were one of the best before having to close last year after all that damage from the battle, and from what I've heard that's still true."
"Ah," Luganion scoffed modestly with a broad smile as he pulled the cork from the bottle, "the repair work took some doing, but Aviniel and I simply could not abandon the place. She puts her soul into it, really. So, is this a special occasion?"
Tuornen laughed. "If you call finally sending those Haradrim villains packing back to their cursed desert home like the beaten dogs they are a special occasion, than yes, it certainly is."
Their host looked at Tuornen with wide eyes. "The talks are over?" he gasped, the open wine bottle in his hand, poised over the first glass. "Did they sign a treaty?"
"No, and they never will, thank the Valar," insisted Tuornen gleefully, folding his hands before him on the table. "Seems they aren't pleased with our King's already over-abundant generosity to them, and their leader said today that if things are not changed, they will have no choice but to withdraw."
Luganion gaped. "No!"
"Yes!" the councilman exulted. "In three days they'll be riding out of here and we'll be rid of their filthy presence at last. Maybe after starving for a few years they'll be a little more willing to cooperate, and if not, good riddance to the lot of them." He looked expectantly at the still-empty glass. "Um-?"
"Oh," Luganion said suddenly, realizing his error. There was a gentle splashing sound as he began to fill the glasses. "My, the people will be amazed...they've talked of little else the past few weeks. Many hoped we might have peace at last with them."
"Hm - only fools thought that, I say," huffed Tuornen as he lifted his now-full glass and swirled the wine delicately around, studying its deep scarlet color sparkling in the golden lantern light. "Those of us who know better see that the only possible way the Haradrim can be at peace with us is to accept their new place, as a conquered people of Gondor, with nothing as their own unless by our leave." He sighed and set down the glass, peering solemnly at his friend. "They're lucky we don't just execute all the men right now, since they all have Gondorian blood on their hands."
Luganion appeared uneasy and cleared his throat as he poured the second glass. "But-isn't Lord Faramir in Mordor right now, searching for the Chieftain's son? He was very keen on this peace treaty. Won't he be disappointed to find the talks ended before he returned, with no result?"
"Oh, I'm sure he will recover," said Tuornen dismissively. "He's a dreamer just like the King, always hoping people have a better side. Perhaps he and the King will both wake up now, and realize that there are some people simply not worth bothering about. Besides, he's already been gone for over a week - he could be in Mordor tramping around for months looking for this Karil and his mysterious army of Orcs. I wouldn't be surprised if Adir is lying about the whole matter, simply to put us off of our guard."
His host eyed him with uncertainty. "That attack on the peace delegation was not imagined," he pointed out with slight hesitancy.
"A minor affair," the nobleman replied firmly. "That was probably the entire extent of Karil's forces, if he ever had any to begin with. Nothing more than a few straggling Orcs with old swords, looking to take a few more heads before our soldiers finish them off, and Adir is using them to better his position." He leaned forward and faced Luganion, jabbing the linen-covered tabletop with his finger for emphasis as he made every statement. "I would wager anyone a thousand gold pieces that there is no massive Orc army, no hidden fortress, and perhaps even no Prince Karil at all. It is a trick of the Haradrim to distract us and win our sympathy."
Luganion looked at him steadily for a moment, his lips compressed. "Hm," he said at length before a smile forced its way onto his face. "Ah, well, I suppose we shall see, eh? I fear I must go now. I will make certain that two of our best roasts are sent to your table, with my compliments. Please, enjoy your meals, and give my best to your lovely wives."
He bowed and walked away, soon losing himself among the other guests. Tuornen watched him go with a puzzled expression, then turned to Beleg, crossing his large arms on the table.
"You know," he said slowly, "I think he agreed more with the King than with us."
Beleg shrugged. "As long as the meal is without charge, does it matter?" he said with a smile, before taking a drink of the wine. After swallowing, he looked somberly at his comrade. "You perhaps shouldn't speak so freely about what may happen just yet, my friend. We have almost won the day, but it is not over yet."
"Huh! For the Haradrim, and anyone who supports this misguided treaty, it is," replied Tuornen with conviction as he wrapped his hand around the stem of his glass once more. "Adir has said he will not sign it as it is, I certainly am not going to give him one thing more, and even if by some miracle Lord Faramir returns in the next few days, I do not see what he could do or say that would possibly turn the tide. No, dear Beleg, I intend to fully enjoy myself tonight, for the first time since this miserable incident began. I suggest you do the same, for we have won!"
He clinked his glass with Beleg's and drank, happily envisioning a future with the Haradrim where they belonged - firmly under the steel-clad foot of Gondor.
-------------------
The sunset's shadows were long inside the mountain cave of the Haradrim. Here and there patches of the day's last light stole in, painting small parts of the rock walls a fiery gold, but few of those inside had the heart to notice the dazzling brilliance before it was swallowed up by the darkness.
Jadim stood in the section of the cave where the food was being prepared, his handsome face as solemn as those of his fellows. Patiently he waited until the two bowls he held were filled with the evening meal, his dark eyes distant and pensive. When he had received his portion, he bowed his thanks and walked away with a word.
As he strode through the cave to its mouth, his head was bent in thought, and he paid little heed to the small clusters of Southron men who sat in every nook, quietly discussing the recent turn of events. Some voices were sad, others angry, and all touched with a note of helplessness.
The air around him grew lighter as he neared the entrance, the warm evening breeze stirring his fine ankle-length robe and long, loose black hair. The young man halted a short distance away from his destination, studying the solitary figure seated alone at the cave's mouth, bathed in the final rays of the setting sun. His expression grew somber, and he pursed his lips before continuing his trek, anger and sorrow mingling inside him.
At the front of the cave sat Mahrid Adir, still clad in his formal robes, his legs crossed, his fingers steepled and touching his lips as he stared into the sunset. The light was gone now, the sky painted with brilliant reds and golds, the soft glow from them gently washing over the old Southron's weathered face.
"I have brought food, father," Jadim said quietly, stepping around his parent and bending to hand down the steaming bowl of meat and vegetables.
For a moment, Adir did not move. The he suddenly looked up, as if just noticing his son's arrival, and his graceful hands reached up to cradle the bowl. "Thank you, Jadim," he whispered, settling the bowl in his lap and looking down into its contents. After a pause, he took up the eating utensil and began stirring the meal around slowly, but made no effort to move any of it to his mouth.
Jadim sat next to his father, watching him carefully and with increasing concern. He had not really expected his father to be hungry, but it still pained him to know that the food would become unfit before Adir would have the will to consume it. Alas, it was not his place to order his Chief to eat, even if it was his father.
He sighed and took a few bites of his own meal, watching the splendor of the twilight sky fade into night. The fiery peaks of the eastern mountains dimmed, flickered, and turned gray.
After forcing down a few swallows, he looked to Adir, who was still stirring his food around and staring at it, deeply lost in thought.
Jadim sighed again. "Father?"
Adir did not lift his head, but his tone was gentle. "Yes, my son?"
The young man hesitated. "I am sorry."
A moment passed, then Adir drew a deep sigh and raised his eyes, blessing his son with a melancholy smile. His eyes shone in the twilight's glow. "Perhaps I should have listened to you after all, Jadim," he said in a husky tone. "You did tell me they were not yet ready to hear us."
Jadim eyed his father sharply, then blinked and cast his eyes into his own bowl. "I had hoped I would be wrong," he replied, disappointment clear in his voice. "Some of the Gondorians here had seemed willing to deal with us as men. To the rest-" His lip twitched and he lifted his head to meet his father's eyes, his expression bitter. "To them we are still Sauron's dogs, to be treated as such. Nothing we do will earn their trust."
Adir nodded, looking out now over the rocks that bordered their sanctuary, to the heights of the mountains beyond. The horizon glowed pink-purple now, a few stars now shining in the velvet-soft sky.
"It was my wish that we might have peace before death closed my eyes," he said wistfully, gazing into the coming night. "A few of the Northern men shared this, I believe, King Elessar, Lord Faramir. The prince of Dol Amroth. But..." His voice trailed off and he shook his head, dropping his gaze once more. "After being enemies for so long, I was, perhaps, a fool to think we could be allies in so short a time."
Jadim studied his father. "It was not foolish of you to desire the best for our people," he offered quietly.
"Hm," Adir grunted with a thoughtful smile. "Our people - I hope they forgive me when we ride home with no agreement binding us with the trade and protection of the northern kingdoms."
The younger man frowned and scooped up another helping of his meal. "I think they would prefer that to some of the terms those fat councilmen demanded," he said sharply before lifting the food into his mouth.
The Chieftain looked up as his son chewed his food, directing his eyes to the heavens. "To their credit, I do not think the King or our friends agreed with those men," Adir observed. "But I know that by their law the King cannot act without their consent. I fear they will never give it." He sighed and turned his head to Jadim, his tone growing more concerned. "It is also my fear that this will drive more of our men to your brother's cause, as they will see no other way."
At this, Jadim's dark eyes flashed, his features grim in the warm torchlight now spilling from within the cave. "They will be slitting their own throats if they do," he proclaimed, staring steadily at his father. "When Lord Faramir finds their lair, Gondor will deal with them, treaty or not."
Adir's expression became pained, and he turned once more to stare into the blooming night.
His son hesitated, then said in a more sympathetic tone, "For your sake alone, Father, I hope Karil is spared. But we must not dwell too long on his fate when our own is yet uncertain. The men speak of leaving soon, perhaps tomorrow, as there is little faith left that our time here will be rewarded."
Silence fell between them, broken only by the faint sounds of the early summer evening awakening around them and the muted sounds of the life stirring within the cave behind them. When no response came, Jadim followed his father's gaze out across the mountaintops, pondering the night sky as he wordlessly ate his food.
"We will not leave so soon," murmured Adir after some time, his warm brown eyes never leaving the mountains. "A few days more, until I feel all hope is truly gone. It is as foolish and stubborn as I am, I fear, and will not depart from me so quickly. And I wish to stay to speak to Lord Faramir, if he returns before we depart. His heart is with our people, I believe, and he is a man of wisdom as well as peace. I would say farewell to him, as I doubt I will ever come to his White City again."
Jadim inclined his head to regard his father, their faces almost hidden now in the falling shadows.
"It shall be as you wish, my Chief," he said respectfully.
No more words were spoken, and they sat together and watched the night settle upon the land. The distant mountains standing guard around the land of Mordor soon faded completely from their view, shrouded by the night's dark cloak until, in the utter blackness, they could not be seen at all.
-----------------
For Faramir, the night had fallen long before.
Once begun on their journey back to the fortress with their prize, the Orcs had rarely halted, and the young Steward, worn from the fatigue of battle and the wounds he had sustained there, had found himself forced to keep pace with them. Never once, however, had he allowed them to see his step falter, or lifted his voice in a plea for rest. They would see the strength of Gondor in him, he resolved, despite the fact that he was their prisoner.
On the rare occasions when they had ceased the relentless march, the Orcs had allowed Faramir to seat himself only because it would not do for him to drop from exhaustion and thus deprive the Prince of a chance to properly kill him. So he was pushed roughly down onto one of the rocks, still bound hand and throat, and watched keenly for any sign of trying to escape.
Desperately he hoped for water, but instead a foul Orc potion was forced down his throat. The taste was hideous, and he tried to ignore the harsh laughter of the creatures as he gagged on it. He stopped himself short of spitting it out, for he knew that, horrid as it was, it was likely a kind of restorative that would give him the ability to continue, and hopefully survive, the road ahead of him.
At such times, the Orcs would continue to ply him for information, although they did not try to strike him again. To all of their threats and questions he remained mute, and gave no indication to the truth or falsehood of their speculations.
"They musta just got into Mordor," suggested one Orc as he stood with his comrades round Faramir and studied him. "We'd'a seen 'em if they was comin' out of Mordor instead of goin' in."
The other Orcs muttered agreement.
"Ha!" snorted one fat creature. "You did good to get as far in as you did, maggot. Guess you was comin' to find the Prince. Well, you'll find him now, all right."
This was met with hearty laughter, to which Faramir gave no reaction, save a silent plea that Henvain had found the map, and that he and Legolas were safely on their way home with it. Gratitude also welled in his heart for the vanity of the Orcs, that they would think it so impossible for he and his friends to have already found the fortress. Had they known that he had seen its location, he doubtlessly would have been killed on the spot.
During the endless hours of marching, the young Steward had plenty of time to contemplate the situation. Little pity was spent on himself; his entire mind and heart were instead consumed with thoughts of Legolas and Henvain. There were no words to describe his joy upon seeing that they had survived, and escaped the notice of the Orcs. Beyond this knowledge, however, he had only hope-that Henvain was able to rouse Legolas, that the Elf had not been too terribly injured to move, that they had found the map and were now carrying it to Minas Tirith. In their hands lay the fate of peace, and as he was dragged and pushed along the rock-strewn path deeper into Mordor, he thought of his friends upon their own difficult road, and sent aloft his earnest prayers to sustain them.
The night faded into day, and day turned back into night, before their long journey was ended. Faramir recognized the land as they approached the fortress, although his hosts never knew it. As each step drew him nearer, he steeled himself, knowing the dire nature of what lay before him. All strength, all courage, all resolve that he possessed would be needed, and he silently summoned it as they crested the hill and looked over the sprawling fortress spread out in the valley below him, its vast field alight with torches and crawling with the forms of the Orcs army.
"Some sight, eh, maggot?" crowed one of the Orcs, giving Faramir a heavy push as they stood atop the ridge. "That's what you came to see, isn't it? Your people will see it, too, but they won't have to travel as far as you."
The Orcs burst into laughter at this, while Faramir said nothing, only peering at the army and the siege towers reaching into the starless night sky. Above them all reared the fortress, its gray form hulking ghost-like in the gloom, waiting. Faramir regarded it, a leaden air of dread pressing around his heart.
'Valar,' he prayed silently, 'grant me strength.'
"Move, you scum!" hollered the Uruk, and they were marching again, down the road into the valley.
Word of Faramir's capture had apparently been sent ahead, for it seemed every Orc on the plain was aware of his arrival, and came to gawk and jeer. Quickly he was hauled along the narrow path leading to the largest of the fortress' structures, perhaps to prevent the shrieking beasts that lined the path from causing him any premature harm. Pain and exhaustion assailed him now, but still he showed the creatures no weakness, meeting every mocking word with the proud air of a true son of Gondor.
The huge Orcs standing guard looked Faramir over with a sneer, then pulled open the gigantic wooden door.
"To the main chamber with this lot," commanded the largest of the two. "The Prince is waiting for him."
Abruptly Faramir was pulled through the door, almost choking as the Orc holding the rope around his throat eagerly dashed ahead. The Orcs swarmed around him now, hurrying as they pushed and pulled him along, the Uruk leading the way. Soon they were moving up a very long flight of dark stone steps, lit sporadically by torches mounted upon the walls. Gasping now for breath, his bruised lungs aching from the effort, Faramir thought they would never reach the top, until suddenly they burst onto a wide landing facing yet another guarded door.
Scarcely had Faramir time to catch his breath before the door was flung open, and he was hustled into the next room. Huge hands ruthlessly grabbed him and threw him to his knees upon the stone floor. He shuddered from the pain but remained silent, struggling himself to an upright position despite the hands firmly gripping his arms and shoulders, forcing him to stay where he was. After a few moments his sense cleared, and he lifted his head to see his surroundings.
It was a large room, lit with torches and lanterns, and within his sight were several tables laden with maps. Many figures stood before him now, some Uruks and Haradrim soldiers, men of high military rank by their appearance. Between these men and Uruks, some twenty feet away, was a slightly raised platform of stone surmounted by three short steps. Upon this platform was a carved wooden chair, and upon it sat a very young Haradrim man in rich robes, who was sitting back in the chair with one hand on his chin, studying him very closely with a cold smile upon his lips.
'Karil', thought Faramir; it could be no other. He could easily see some of Adir's features within this Southron's handsome face, but the traits which were warm and soft in the older man's visage were transformed on Karil into a mask of hardness and cruelty.
Faramir braced himself.
"So this is the spy that so dared to enter the Dark Lord's domain," Karil said in a bemused tone. He stood, his fine clothes rustling with the motion. "I bid you welcome to my Master's realm, Faramir, son of Denethor."
A piercing cold stabbed Faramir's heart as he looked at Karil, burying the dread surprise now enfolding him; it had been his hope that none there would know who he was.
"I hope you will not be foolish enough to deny it," Karil continued, striding down the short stairs from the platform towards him, the train of his courtly robes whispering along the floor behind him. "You and I have met across the field of battle many times. We men of Harad know the faces of our enemies; they are inscribed upon our hearts in the blood of our fallen warriors, so that we may recognize them when the gods deliver them to our justice."
He had come to within a few paces of Faramir now, and halted, smiling at Faramir with the grin of a starving predator. The Steward saw his eyes now, yellow as a wolf's and utterly without mercy.
Although he could barely move, Faramir strove to draw himself as straight as he could, and eyed the Southron steadily and without fear.
"I am not your enemy, Karil," he said softly. "It was Sauron who deceived you, he who led your people into generations of hatred and war. Your land is crippled now, its homes destitute and in need of healing. My King is willing to lend you his aid and protection, if you would but put aside the way of death and take his hand."
The young man eyed him for a moment, then swiftly reached down and grabbed the top of Faramir's head, wrenching his head back as he forced his gaze upwards. Faramir gasped but gave no other sign of pain, resolved to remain steadfast as he stared into Karil's face.
"You may save your Northern lies for fools such as my father and my brother, Steward of Gondor," the Prince growled, bending to bring himself closer to Faramir. "The Haradrim blood that stains your sword and your soul can never be washed away, save by the shedding of your own. And rest assured, it will be shed, and the injustice redressed, when I have taken what I want from you."
He released Faramir with a push and stepped back. The young Steward shook his head, trying to dispel the pain, forcing his thoughts to right themselves. He paid no attention to the threat to himself; there were other, more important matters to address.
"Prince Karil, I ask only that you heed me," Faramir replied when his panting for breath had eased enough to allow speech. He knew he would not have much time. "My people and yours have both suffered greatly; a chance has come to end that suffering, and I urge you to accept it. To send an army against Gondor is madness now, and will lead to only more pain for those we love."
Karil eyed him without moving, a faint scowl on his face.
"It is not too late to end this," urged Faramir in a quiet tone. "Disband your forces, and return to your father. He bears great love for you, and would welcome - "
The rest of the words were lost as Karil charged forward and sent his fist crashing across Faramir's face. Briefly, darkness clouded the Steward's vision, and the world seemed to reel around him. When he came back to himself, he felt blood trickling down his cheek, and saw Karil's enraged face only inches from his own, the Prince's hand fiercely gripping the throat-rope and pulling it taut.
"Do not dare speak again of that traitor to Harad and Sauron," snarled Karil in words dripping with bitter hatred. "What do I care for the love of one who allies himself with the murderers of our people? He has earned only damnation from me, and so he shall receive it, when all else has been fulfilled."
With a violent shake, he released the rope and swiftly stood. Faramir's eyes followed him, waiting, Adir's heartbroken words of love for his son spinning through his mind, mingling somehow with those spoken by his own father before the flames of the pyre consumed him. If only Karil could be made to understand...
But Karil seemed beyond understanding now, regarding Faramir with icy eyes as he stood above him. "You may wish to save your breath for yourself, dog of Gondor, for you do not have much left," he said, his tone now sharp and brisk. "Since hearing of your capture, I have been in consultation over what to do with you. It was suggested that I offer you in trade to your King for my father."
Faramir's blood turned cold over this thought; as much as he wanted the two men to meet again, it seemed obvious that Karil would horribly murder Adir before listening to any words of reconciliation.
"But I have decided that such an arrangement would not please me," Karil's voice broke through Faramir's thoughts, and he saw that Karil was pacing now, slowly walking back and forth in front of him, his hands clasped behind his back. "To allow you beyond the walls of this fortress alive would lead to its discovery, and while I would be avenged upon my father, I would be no closer to being avenged upon Gondor."
He ceased pacing and faced Faramir, his expression now somber as he studied his captive.
"It is clear to me that your deliverance into our hands was a gift, Steward of Gondor," he said in a hushed, reverent tone. "Our Dark Lord and Master can no longer honor us with his physical presence, but still his power reaches beyond the circles of death to bless his faithful servants. It is through you that his vengeance shall be wreaked upon those who broke their vow, beginning with my father, who for his crime shall never again set foot in Harad."
Faramir glared at him, motionless, saying nothing.
"I know that you have hidden him somewhere within your kingdom, so that he may form his unholy alliance in safety," Karil continued, his face shadowed with loathing. "Near to your city, I have presumed, although you have perhaps sequestered him elsewhere in an attempt to thwart my intents. My Orcs have been unable to locate him, and your land is too vast for my forces to search without discovery."
He paused, and smiled. "Now, through Sauron's blessing to us, we shall have our answer. As Gondor's Steward, you have broken bread with my father, and bandied the words of blood with which he would forsake our people. You shall tell me where they have hidden him, so that he may be brought here to face the justice of the almighty Lord of Mordor whom he has betrayed."
Faramir glared at him, motionless, saying nothing.
"I also know that your City has not yet rebuilt its walls to their former strength," the Prince continued, slowly walking back and forth in front of Faramir as he spoke. "You shall tell me where weakness yet prevails upon those walls, so that when my forces arrive there, their siege towers may finish what our mighty army of the past so nobly began. I would also know the number of soldiers you have now, and where the strengths and faults of your defenses lie."
Faramir watched the Prince as he strode to a large window nearby, his back now to the room as he gazed into the black night. Across the shrouded night, the distant mountains could be seen rising faintly in the farthest distance, and Faramir knew that among those forms was Mt. Orodruin's shattered peaks, and the ruins of Barad-Dur.
"And there is more we would do, when Gondor has suffered its share," the Prince intoned as he stood motionless, his hands clenched into fists behind his back. "Rohan must pay its price as well, as will the Halfling whose foul deed brought my Master to his destruction."
He whirled and paced swiftly back from the window, his cold eyes fixed on Faramir.
"Sauron's will has ordained you as the touch-stone, son of Denethor," he declared, his steps halting before the young Steward. "He has directed the winds of chance to carry you here for this purpose. You shall reveal all you know to me, and through the use of my Lord's gift I will make his wrath felt by those who have denied him."
Silence fell, broken only by the muted chuckling among the Orcs. For a long while Faramir said nothing, merely gazing resolutely at Karil, until at last the Steward's own voice made its answer.
Faramir's tone was unwavering as he quietly said, "I think not."
The Prince's yellow eyes smoldered, and reaching down he tightly grasped Faramir's chin beneath his slender fingers, forcing his prisoner to face him. "Consider your answer carefully," he whispered. "The Orcs, as you know, are capable of the most savage cruelties, and my people are also highly skilled in the art of interrogation. I shall have your knowledge, whether you are willing or no, and I believe you are wise enough to know what an unwilling nature will bring to you."
Faramir did know; but his gaze was still firm as he looked into the eyes of his captor.
"My answer will never change, Karil," he said softly.
A smile twitched Karil's lips.
"We shall see, dog of Gondor," he hissed, and pushed Faramir's head roughly away as he released his hold on him. Without another word, the Prince turned his back on him and strode away.
Faramir licked his dry lips, seeking in his mind for any way to turn the Prince from his deadly course. "Hear me, Karil," he said aloud, struggling slightly against the iron grip that held him down. "You cannot prevail; Rohan and Gondor together will crush any attack you might make, and take your life as payment. Do not add more to the portion of suffering and death that our people have endured."
The prince turned back to face him with a rustle of silk, the cold smile once more upon his lips. "I am touched by your desire to spare me from disappointment, son of Denethor," he replied in a bemused tone. "However, if my efforts bring to your people even a small amount of the anguish that Gondor has brought to mine, I will be satisfied. Once my fellow Haradrim, and others who were joined beneath Sauron's banner, see that it is possible to strike back against you, they will join me, and my forces that are counted in the thousands today will be numbered in the tens of thousands tomorrow."
He turned fully back to Faramir now, and very slowly stepped towards him, their eyes locked.
"No, fear not for me, son of Gondor," said Karil smoothly. "I am surrounded by a mighty host; you are alone. Your comrades are dead, there are none who know where you are or what has happened to you, and you are mine to deal with as I please. My traitor father and your King may continue to seek me, when they realize you have failed, but by then you will be unable to profit by their efforts. Think on this until our next meeting, for we shall speak again."
He waved his hand, and Faramir caught his breath as the Orcs hauled him roughly to his feet. No further words were spoken to him as he was dragged from the room. Still slightly dazed, Faramir kept pace as best he could as he was taken back into the hall, the Orc's hands clamped painfully around his arms and denying him even the slightest hint of movement.
At first he supposed they would go down the same way they had ascended; instead, they veered towards another set of winding stairs, darker and far more steep. Soon they were descending quickly, the air quickly becoming colder and more foul, the burning torches becoming fewer, their light more faint.
At last they emerged at the very bottom, into a small anteroom lit only by a single torch. Several large, open wooden doors faced them; it once might have been a cellar store-room long ago, when the fortress was in use by Men; but the rank stench of the air, and stains of blood upon the floor, told of its more recent and far darker purpose. Between the row of doors and the stairway was a long, dark corridor, whatever lay at its end lost in shadows.
Faramir was quickly bundled through one of the open doors, into a small chamber no more than a few yards square, without windows, its floor barely covered with filthy straw. He scarcely had time to notice this before he was thrown to the ground, his hands still bound behind him. He grimaced as his face struck the hard stone floor, pain erupting anew over his entire body. Gasping, he opened his eyes in time to see the Orcs pull the door closed, plunging the room into complete darkness. There was a loud clank as a lock in the door-handle was turned, followed by the muffled voices of the Orcs as they laughed over their success on the other side, and he was alone.
For several moments Faramir did not move, trying instead to compose his thoughts and his breathing. He blinked several times to clear the sweat from his eyes, although there was nothing to see; no light entered even beneath the door. Yet he still made the effort, and after several minutes had passed, he resolved to at least pull himself up.
It took several attempts for him to find a way to move his body so that it would obey him without too much pain; but very slowly he moved to the wall, and inch by inch heaved himself upright. His back brushed something cold and clanking as he slid along; 'Chains', he thought, and shuddered, but quickly put them out of his mind. He wanted no future dread to distract him from the present, for there was enough there to keep him fully occupied.
At last he was sitting up, and he did nothing but sit for a short while and collect his breath, willing a spirit of calm to fall over himself. It did little good to dwell on his misfortune, so he did not, his years of service having taught him the uselessness of such effort. His task now was to turn his attention to what lay before him, and prepare himself.
He had to allow himself at least a small smile, to recall Karil's confident words; he knew nothing of Henvain or Legolas' survival, or that a map containing the whereabouts of the fortress would soon be in the hands of the King of Gondor. Hope embraced his soul, for he knew he was not as abandoned as the Prince would have him believe. He would be delivered, when Gondor's avenging forces made their way to the Prince's lair. He had only to endure until then.
As he stared into the utter blackness, his mind moved back to the early days of his training, when men who had been soldiers for years would come to prepare the recruits for their lives as soldiers of Gondor. Part of this preparation involved the discussion of what to expect if one was ever captured by the enemy, and how best to face that circumstance. They spared no detail in this, and Faramir knew of more than one recruit who quit the army rather than live with the constant threat of such horrors. But as the Son of the Steward, he had no choice but to accept the danger, and regarded it, then as now, as part of the price for taking on the duty of protecting the land that he loved.
The air in the cell was biting, and he shivered as he gazed sightlessly ahead with somber eyes. There was no denying the fear that crept upon him at the idea of the torment he would soon be facing; he knew that to feel otherwise would be inhuman. Instead, he allowed the fear, drawing on the strength it gave to sustain him for his trial. He would feel far worse agony were he to exchange the knowledge sought by Karil for his own personal comfort; the very notion sickened him. He resolved instead to bear this, as he had borne other trials, until he could be freed, however long a wait that might be.
Tender thoughts of Eowyn now came to his mind, and he sighed, bowing his head as his longing for her swept over him. He closed his eyes, and she was with him, her smooth white arms around his neck, the soft skin of her cheek brushing his own, his face buried in his fragrant golden hair. He surrendered to the vision completely, the cold and darkness around him melting away before her radiance, the pain disappearing beneath her gentle touch. He nestled himself into her warm embrace, relishing its utter sweetness, all too aware of how soon it would be gone.
'Eowyn, beloved of my heart,' he whispered, 'the night before me is long and black indeed, but I swear to you I shall travel through it, using the light of your memory to bring me safely to the dawn on the other side. This shall weigh heavily on you, when you hear of it; I bid you be strong and do not despair, for I am resolved to survive this, and we shall meet again, when all of this is ended.'
Thus he remained, wrapped in her arms, until they came for him.
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Author's Note: Many thanks to my reviewers! I really appreciate all of your kind words and feedback:)
Sue :)